


This Bed Wasn’t Built For Our Love

by DelilahMcMuffin



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Broken Bones, Kind of whumpy?, Let’s call this “Whump Lite”, M/M, Marcy Brewer is taking none of their shit, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Painkillers, Rambunctious sex, Secondhand embarrassment, Sex bloopers, Sex in a childhood bedroom, Universal Health Care, Vomiting, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelilahMcMuffin/pseuds/DelilahMcMuffin
Summary: Ohmygod.A voice that sounds a lot like his husband’s echoes in Patrick’s brain. His parentsheard them.Heard themhaving sex.Heard them having sexso rambunctiousthat theybroke the goddam bed.
Relationships: Clint Brewer & David Rose, Clint Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Clint Brewer/Marcy Brewer, Marcy Brewer & David Rose, Marcy Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 159
Kudos: 498





	1. Chapter 1

“Fuck, babe...yeah. Oh God. So good.  _ So _ fucking good. Just like... _ fuck. _ Just like that. Just like tha—“

Patrick’s litany of barely whispered praise is cut off as David slaps a hand over his mouth. 

“Ohmygod, you have  _ got _ to be quiet,” David hisses, not letting up his pace at all, riding Patrick’s cock as if both their lives depend on it. For a moment, the squeak of the bed frame as their bodies collide over and over again is the only sound in Patrick’s childhood bedroom.

“Can’t...fuck...can’t help it,” Patrick finally mumbles against David’s hand. “Feels so goo—“

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Feels good,” David pants, hips rocking wildly. “But it is  _ not _ going to feel good if your parents hear us, okay? I will not be able to face your lovely mother in the morning if I know she heard me fucking your brains out, so…”

Patrick’s brain recoils momentarily at the mention of his  _ mother _ while he has his cock buried balls deep in his husband’s perfect ass. But the feeling of David over him, on him, around him, quickly crowds out all other thoughts.

“Oh God...I’m gonna...baby, I’m gonna come!” Patrick wails, as quietly as he can. Which, to be fair, isn’t all that quiet. “I’m gonna come, and then...then I’m gonna eat you out, and I’m gonna suck your cock until you can’t remember your own name.”

David moans, biting his bottom lip, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Yes. Yes! All of that. I want all of that.” He doubles down, increasing the frantic pace on Patrick’s cock until the edges of Patrick’s vision go white and his body arches up off the mattress. He grabs David’s hips, grinding up into his tight, slick heat until he can feel his cock begin to soften. It’s just on the edge of being too much, and he sits up, wrapping his arms around his husband and capturing his lips in a frantic kiss. 

He braces himself and begins to roll them over. He needs to get his mouth on David’s ass, needs to taste his own come mixed with the flavour of his husband’s sweat and heat. They flounder around for a moment. His old bed is not really big enough to hold two grown men grappling with each other in the heat of passion. Apparently, it wasn’t made to take the weight of two grown men either. He’s just got a grip on David and is rolling him over so he can pin him down when there’s a sharp  _ crack _ and the world seems to slow down around them.

He’s got his hands on David’s hips, but they’re slippery from lube and spit and the precome David has steadily leaked all over the both of them. He sees David’s hands scrabble desperately for purchase on something, anything, as the bed beneath them makes a dramatic  _ ker-THUNK,  _ and they’re both on the floor, Patrick landing gracelessly on top of David. Their foreheads clunk painfully together, and Patrick rolls onto his side, rubbing at the goose egg that is surely growing on his forehead.

“Oh my God! Babe? You okay?” Patrick glances over at David who is grimacing in pain and clutching at his right wrist. He looks pale, and the fact that he isn’t making more of a fuss over finding himself dumped onto the floor of Patrick’s childhood bedroom has Patrick more worried than if he’d been screaming up a storm. “David? Honey? Are you—“

David lets out a low, breathy groan, rolling onto his side, away from Patrick, and curling up into himself. Patrick reaches out to place a hand on David’s shoulder, but David recoils from his touch. “Don’t touch me!” he shrieks, and Patrick retracts his hand, pushing himself up so he can see over David, see the way he cradles his right arm, the way his fingers of his right hand have gone white and his eyes are squeezed shut. 

“Okay. Okay,” Patrick murmurs, willing himself to calm down. He needs to be level headed to help David. Because David is  _ hurt _ and Patrick needs to do something. But he has no idea what.

There’s a soft knock on the door. “Boys? Are you okay?” His mother’s voice sounds tired and concerned, and maybe a little bit annoyed. “We heard...sounds.”

_ Ohmygod.  _ A voice that sounds a lot like his husband’s echoes in Patrick’s brain. His parents  _ heard  _ them. Heard them  _ having sex. _ Heard them having sex  _ so rambunctious  _ that they  _ broke the goddam bed. _

“Uh...just, um. Just a sec!” Patrick calls out, eyes darting frantically around the room. They land on his pyjama pants that David had yanked off his legs earlier. He gets to his feet and stumbles into the thin cotton pants. His mom is knocking on the door again, and David lets out another groan, so Patrick forgoes looking for the t-shirt he’d worn to bed. He glances down at a very naked David, curled in on himself with a thin line of Patrick’s come trickling out of his ass onto the Maple Leaf’s rug Patrick had gotten as a gift from his grandmother on his 10th birthday. 

“Patrick? What’s going on in there?” There’s a no-nonsense tone to his mother’s voice that he knows all too well. It’s the tone that says he’s got to the count of five to open the door  _ or else. _ He grabs the comforter from where it had been flung off the foot of the bed and lays it gently over David’s prone form, then he pulls open the door.

“Mom! Hi!” Patrick cringes internally at his forced casualness. His mom narrows her eyes at him. “Um, so we were just... _ anyway, _ the bed, um, broke and I think...I think David is hurt. Like,  _ badly.” _

His mom pushes past Patrick and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart from his naked torso to the dilapidated heap that used to be his bed. But then her eyes fall on David and the look of irritation melts away, leaving only maternal concern as she kneels down at David’s side.

“David?” she says softly, hand hovering over him. David moans piteously. “Sweetheart, I’m going to touch you now, okay? I need you to roll onto your back for me.”

Patrick’s heart clenches when David shakes his head frantically. “No! No, no. Please. Please don’t…it hurts. It hurts!”

“I know,” she soothes, gently stroking his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. She frowns at the bump on his forehead and glances up at Patrick, obviously taking note of the matching red welt on his face. With a shake of her head, she turns her attention back to David. “I know it hurts, sweetheart. But I need to see it, okay?”

She gently rolls David onto his back and he cries out as the move jostles his injured arm. Patrick watches with baited breath as David allows his mom to carefully pry his grip away from his wrist. The fingers on his right hand are almost blue, and David’s face shines with a fresh sheen of sweat. She carefully examines his wrist, sets her palm against his forehead. Then she nods and pushes up to her feet. 

“I think his wrist is broken. Fractured at least,” she whispers to Patrick. “And he’s going into shock. He’s sweaty and clammy and his pulse is racing.

“Oh God,” Patrick breathes, wringing his hands. “W-what do we do?”

“We need to get him to the hospital,” his mom says, patting his arm consolingly. “I’m going to get dressed. Why don’t you—“ she glances down at his bare upper body, then down at David, his lower half barely covered by the blanket as he writhes in pain on the floor, “—make yourself presentable, then help get David into some clothes.”

“Okay. Yeah, yes. That's a good...okay. I can do that.”

His mom reaches out and gently pats his cheek. “He’s going to be fine, sweetie,” she assures him. “Now get dressed.”

She closes the door behind her, and Patrick can hear the low rumble of his father’s voice out in the hall. Heat flushes his face at the situation he and David have found themselves in. A moan of pain from the floor snaps Patrick’s mind back to the task at hand. He has to get dressed.

He shucks off his pyjama pants and grabs a pair of underwear from their suitcase, not bothering to check if it’s his or David’s and slides them up his legs. Definitely David’s. None of his underwear is this soft or fits so well. Then he digs around for his sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, hurriedly dressing before diving back into the suitcase for clothes for David.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know where this came from. But I wanted porn, and I also wanted hurt/comfort and I wanted second hand embarrassment with a side of Clint & Marcy watching their son look after his husband after a rather embarrassing sex-related injury. Basically, everything but the kitchen sink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcy glances over her shoulder and catches Patrick’s frantic gaze. His eyes are wild with worry, and probably a little guilt. If the two of them hadn’t been...well. No sense going down that road. She shakes her head. They are still newlyweds, so she can hardly blame them. It doesn’t mean she has to be happy about an impromptu trip to the ER in the middle of the night because her son and his husband can’t keep their hands off each other for a week-long visit, though.

David emits a pitiful squeak as Clint hits another pothole on the way to the hospital. Marcy closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, holding it for the count of five, and then slowly releasing it. She can hear Patrick in the back seat, desperately trying to console his injured husband.

She glances over her shoulder and catches Patrick’s frantic gaze. His eyes are wild with worry, and probably a little guilt. If the two of them hadn’t been...well. No sense going down that road. She shakes her head. They are still newlyweds, so she can hardly blame them. It doesn’t mean she has to be happy about an impromptu trip to the ER in the middle of the night because her son and his husband can’t keep their hands off each other for a five day visit, though. 

“How’s he doing?” she asks.

Patrick shakes his head. “He’s shivering. Is he supposed to be shivering?”

“That’s the shock,” Marcy says calmly. “You were exactly the same when you broke your arm in Grade 5, remember? You fell off the jungle gym and the school nurse had to bundle you up in blankets for the trip to the hospital.”

It had been one of the scariest days of her life. Getting the call from Patrick’s school that her baby boy had been hurt had sent her into a panic. Marcy still marvels that she’d been able to keep it together in front of Patrick. She’d sped to his school to collect him, his sweet face tear streaked and his little body trembling. He’d sobbed out apology after apology, afraid that she’d be mad at him for calling her away from work. When they’d gotten to the hospital, she’d pulled him onto her lap and held him close, pressing assurances to his plump little cheeks along with her kisses.

“I don’t remember that,” Patrick says. They hit another bump and Patrick closes his eyes, pressing his lips to David’s ear and whispering soothing words to him. Marcy smiles to herself despite their situation. Seeing her son showing the same loving care for his husband that she’d held for him as a little boy makes her heart overflow.

“I’m not surprised. You were pretty out of it,” Marcy says, reaching into the backseat to pat her son comfortingly on the knee. She smiles at David. “We’re almost there, sweetie. Just a few more minutes.”

David moans in reply and Patrick lovingly shushes him, carefully tucking the old Power Rangers blanket that he’d grabbed from the linen closet more tightly around him. 

Clint pulls up in front of the Emergency Room doors and Patrick and Marcy help David into the waiting room. Patrick sits with him while Marcy goes to the admitting desk to take a number. She hands the small paper ticket to Patrick. “Shouldn’t be long now,” she says, sitting down on David’s other side and brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “There aren’t many people ahead of us.”

David blinks blearily at her, then turns to Patrick. “W-what number is it?” he asks, and Patrick smiles at him, kissing his cheek, nuzzling his nose against his temple.

“If it was B13, would you lose your shit right now?” 

David chuckles, then winces, nodding his head. “My lucky number,” he groans softly before resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

Patrick smiles fondly down at his husband, wrapping a careful arm around his blanket-covered shoulder. Then his gaze flicks up to meet Marcy’s, and the worry is back.

“B13?” she asks, hoping that distracting Patrick with what is clearly an inside joke between them will help alleviate his anxiety.

It works, and the corners of Patrick’s lips twitch upward. “When we first met,” he says, gently running his fingers through the wild nest of sweaty curls atop David’s head, “Ray made him take a number for his appointment. When he handed it to me, I don’t know why, but I...I kept it. Just, something about him made me want to hang on to a little piece of that first meeting.” David makes an affirming little hum and nuzzles closer to Patrick, widening the smile on her son’s face. “Anyway, I hung onto it. Kept it in my wallet until it was about ready to disintegrate. I was going to throw it out, but David found it in the garbage, framed it, and surprised me with it as a housewarming present when we moved into the cottage.”

“S’a good thing you threw out that cupcake, or I never woulda found it,” David mumbles into Patrick’s shoulder. 

Marcy chuckles. She’s found David pawing through her garbage a time or two looking for leftovers. “That’s lovely,” she says, and Patrick grins at her over David’s head. 

“How’re we doing?” Clint says, back from parking the car and dropping into the seat beside Marcy. 

“Just waiting to get David admitted,” Marcy says, just as the woman behind the admitting desk stands.

“A45,” she calls out. Patrick looks down at the ticket in his hand and gently rouses David from his shoulder.

“C’mon, baby. That’s us,” he says. Marcy and Patrick help David to his feet and deposit him in the chair at Admitting. The woman smiles at the three of them.

“Name?”

“David Rose,” Patrick offers.

“Do you have your health card?” she asks. Patrick reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and extracts David’s wallet, pulling out his Provincial Health Card and handing it over. “Okay. David Jonathan Rose,” she murmurs, typing his card number into her computer. “Is your address still 815 Deacon’s Lane, Sch...oh my God.  _ Schitt’s Creek?” _ She smiles up at Patrick. “That’s actually the name of your town?”

Marcy can see the effort it takes for Patrick to hold back an eye roll, but he does, smiling benignly at the woman. “Yup. Home sweet home.”

“That’s hilarious,” she muses to herself, handing back David’s card. “Okay, so. David, what brings you here tonight?”

“My arm,” David says through teeth gritted in pain.

The woman smiles. “I’m going to need a little more to go on than that. Can you tell me what’s wrong with your arm?”

“Hurts.” David looks pleadingly up at Patrick. “Can you? Please?”

Patrick nods. “He fell out of bed. Well, actually, the bed, uh...broke. And then he fell out of it.”

“Oh, ouch!” The woman grimaces in sympathy. “How did the bed break? Were you just sleeping? Or…” She trails off and Marcy tries not to smirk at the blush that has risen on Patrick’s cheeks.

“He was—“ off Marcy’s pointed look, Patrick’s blush deepens and he clears his throat before correcting himself. “—We were, um...we were having, you know…”

“A nap?” The woman behind the desk looks genuinely confused. 

_ “Ohmygod! Sex!” _ David says loudly. “We were having sex, okay? And the bed broke and I landed funny on my arm and here we are! Can we just...can I please see a doctor?!”

“Oh, um. Yes. Of course.” The woman’s cheeks have flushed almost as pink as Patrick’s, and she types rapidly into her computer. Patrick is trying his best to avoid Marcy’s gaze, and over her shoulder, she hears Clint snort back a laugh. It’s not funny, really. Because poor David is hurt. But it is also...kind of funny.

“Right. Okay then,” the woman says, glancing between David and Patrick. “You both have bruises on your foreheads. Can I assume that was also part of the...of the sex? And the falling out of bed?”

“Oh my God,” Patrick mutters under his breath. He glances sidelong at Marcy, before he nods. “Yes. Um, that was...I fell on top of him? And we, um, we hit our heads.”

“Right.” The woman says, all business once again, though her cheeks are still a rosy pink. “Okay, just a few more questions. David, I need your emergency contact information. Can I assume…” She trails off, looking up at Patrick. 

“Yeah. That’s me. I’m his husband,” Patrick says. 

“Okay, Mr...Rose? I just need your information.”

Patrick startles. “Oh, um. No. It’s Brewer. Patrick Brewer,” he says, and rattles off his phone number.

“Any allergies, David?”

“Pitted fruits.”

She smiles. “Well, we’ll try not to prescribe any of those tonight.”

“Ohmygod, please don’t!” David cries, horrified. “I don’t want to be all puffy and itchy on top of being broken and wounded!”

“She was kidding, babe,” Patrick offers with a gentle pat to David’s good shoulder.

“I know, but can you imagine?” David shudders, then winces and moans, grabbing at his injured arm.

The woman smiles and grabs a medical armband from the printer at her side, on which is printed all of David’s pertinent information. She slips it around David’s undamaged wrist and clips it together, then looks back up at Patrick. “We’ll get the doctor to take a look at your head too, just to be safe.”

Before he can protest, she’s pulling another armband from her printer and clipping it to Patrick’s wrist. He plucks at it miserably, then helps David to his feet, following the instructions toward the next waiting area. Marcy and Clint follow close behind, rolling their eyes at the two men walking slowly ahead of them.

“Wow. We never broke a bed, Marce. Are we doing something wrong?”

Marcy giggles softly and swats at her husband. “Stop it.” Then she looks up at him coquettishly—well, as coquettishly as she can given that it’s 1:27 in the morning and they’re under the unforgivingly sterile fluorescent lights of their local ER in little more than their PJs—and loops her arm through his. “We never broke a bed, but do you remember that old dining room table at my parents?”

“Oh, I remember,” Clint says with a salacious wink that makes Marcy’s cheeks flush.

They’ve no more than sat down with the boys when an orderly arrives to whisk David away for some x-rays.

He looks small and terrified, sitting in the wheelchair all wrapped up in Patrick’s childhood blanket. 

“C-can you come?” he asks Patrick in a small voice. He looks beseechingly up at the orderly. “Can he come?”

The orderly shakes his head. “No can do. Patients only in medical imaging.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be right here when you get back,” Patrick says, bending to kiss David’s upturned face.

David makes a quiet keening noise, but dutifully allows himself to be wheeled away down the hall. And then it’s just the three of them.

“So,” Clint says, slapping his hands to his knees. “Who wants coffee?”

“I’ll have one,” Marcy says. “Patrick? Honey, you want some coffee?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, um, a tea, please?”

“Two coffees and one tea, coming right up,” Clint says, getting to his feet and wandering down the hall toward the cafeteria.

Marcy looks over at Patrick. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled over his mouth. His legs are bouncing and his brows are creased with worry. She slides over to sit beside her son, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“He’s going to be fine,” she assures him again.

“I know. I know,” Patrick chants in response. His legs continue to bounce and he wrings his hands. “I just...he hates hospitals. He gets really anxious. I just don’t want him to be alone for too long.”

Marcy rubs a soothing hand up his back. “He’s just gone for an X-ray, Patrick. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs. He scrubs his hands over his face and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. She can see him chewing at the inside of his cheek, something he does when he has something to say but doesn’t want to say it. His right knee starts to bounce again.

“Honey—“ Marcy begins, just as Patrick says, “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

They share an awkward chuckle and Patrick gives her a little half-smile. “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say that we should have replaced that old bed years ago.” She smiles at her son. “I just...it was  _ your  _ bed, you know? And it’s silly, but it felt like if I got rid of it…” She trails off, not wanting to reopen old wounds.

“You thought I wouldn’t come home?” Patrick finishes for her. “Mom.”

Marcy offers a bashful smile. “I said it was silly,” she reiterates and Patrick smiles sadly back at her. “Now, what were you going to say?”

Patrick gives her a sly look. “I was gonna say that we’ll pay to replace the bed. But now that I know you were thinking of replacing it anyway…”

She slaps him lightly on the knee. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

She grins at him, pinching his chin affectionately. “We’ll split it with you. That bed would’ve had a few more years left in it if you two hadn’t gotten so—“

“Mom!” Patrick covers his face, which has gone scarlet again. “Oh my God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hurting my back is good for giving me time to write today.
> 
> Can I just say that I love Marcy Brewer so hard? She’s no nonsense, but she’s also got a sense of humour. And she and Clint have apparently been a little naughty too, back in their day. So she can’t judge Patrick and David too harshly. 😉


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long does it take for a few X-Rays?” he mutters to himself. Neither of his parents have a ready answer, but he sees them share a look between them out of the corner of his eye. With one final check of his phone, Patrick has had enough. “I’m going to ask what’s taking so long.” He gets to his feet and strides purposefully across the waiting area toward the nurse’s station. He hears his mom calling after him to “let them do their jobs, Patrick,” but he ignores her. He needs answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for broken bones, medical stuff, prescription drugs (being used as prescribed) and vomiting.

Patrick’s knee bounces impatiently and he checks his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes, letting out a long sigh. _Where the hell is David?_

His dad reaches over and pats his knee. “He’ll be done when he’s done, son,” he says and Patrick nods his head distractedly. He checks his phone again.

“How long does it take for a few X-Rays?” he mutters to himself. Neither of his parents have a ready answer, but he sees them share a look between them out of the corner of his eye. With one final check of his phone, Patrick has had enough. “I’m going to ask what’s taking so long.” He gets to his feet and strides purposefully across the waiting area toward the nurse’s station. He hears his mom calling after him to “let them do their jobs, Patrick,” but he ignores her. He needs answers.

He drums his fingers on the desk, waiting for the nurse to finish on the phone. The urge to check his phone again surges up inside him, but he pushes it back down and starts drumming his fingers in double time. He’s nervous. Because he knows David is nervous. David doesn’t like hospitals. Doesn’t like to be touched unless it’s on his terms. And he’s alone, somewhere in the hospital, being poked and prodded and examined by strangers and Patrick doesn’t like it. He wants to see his husband. He needs to know he’s okay.

Finally, the nurse hangs up the phone and looks up at him with tired eyes and a brittle smile on her face. Every impatient, demanding thing he’d been meaning to say shrivels up and dies inside of him. Because this is her job, dealing with people like him all day long, pushing for more information, faster results. He reminds himself that it’s not her fault that David has been separated from him for so long.

“Um, I’m looking for an update on my husband, David Rose?” he says. He realizes he’s still drumming his fingers and he clenches them into a tight fist, resting it on the counter. “He was taken for X-Rays about an hour ago?”

“Let me just check,” she says, tapping at her keyboard. She looks up at him with a smile. “Yes, he was taken to the observation room after his X-Rays about half an hour ago.”

Patrick’s fist clenches tighter. _Half an hour?_ “H-half an hour?” he stammers. “But...we’ve been waiting for him! They said they’d bring him back to the waiting room!”

Her brows furrow and she turns back to her computer. “Oh,” she says, offering an apologetic smile. “Um...someone was supposed to come and get you,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry. It’s been very busy for a Thursday night.”

Patrick closes his eyes and tries to remember the calming exercises David had made him learn for when he has to deal with Ronnie. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then he opens his eyes and tries to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “Can you tell me where I can find him? I’d like to see my husband.”

“Of course!” she says. She gives him directions to the observation room and tells him that David’s bed is the last on the left. He nods his thanks and raps his knuckles against the counter before he turns and jogs back toward his parents.

“Half a fucking hour,” he grumbles to himself as he hurries down the hall after explaining to his folks where he’s going. He arrives at a large open room with a row of beds on either side, separated by privacy curtains in a shade of green that Patrick has only ever seen in hospitals. He can only imagine David’s opinions on the sickly colour. He can’t wait to hear them.

He moves quietly through the room, keeping his eyes focused in front of him, wanting to afford the minimum privacy that this whole situation provides to its patients. And finally, there in the very last bed on the left, is his husband.

David is lying on the narrow bed with his eyes closed. Someone has fashioned a makeshift sling for his arm out of a frayed piece of beige fabric. 

Patrick is overcome with the desperate need to touch David, but he doesn’t want to disturb him. He takes a tentative step forward and David lets out a soft groan. His eyes flutter open and his face goes on a journey from painful grimace, to relief at seeing Patrick, then back to cringing in pain.

“Hey,” Patrick says quietly, crossing the small space and perching carefully on the edge of David’s bed. 

“Hi,” David replies. He looks exhausted and a little wrung out. His hair is a beautiful disaster of wild curls and Patrick can’t help but reach out to sift those soft curls through his fingers.

“I was getting worried!” Patrick says. “I thought you’d run off with the handsome X-Ray technician.”

David smiles crookedly. “Yeah. Well, he may have been handsome, but he was a dick. Kept moving my arm around. I did not like it.”

Patrick chuckles softly and leans forward to kiss David, just a careful press of lips. David hums into the kiss. “I’m sorry baby,” Patrick whispers, nudging his nose against David’s cheek and kissing his temple. 

“I do not remember it hurting so much the last time I had to get X-Rays,” David grouses.

“Yeah?” Patrick’s nuzzling his face into David’s soft hair now, relieved and comforted by the familiar scent of his shampoo. “When was that?”

“I was eight,” David sighs. “I fell down the grand staircase and broke my leg.”

Patrick can’t help but huff out a quiet laugh. “How did that happen?” He hopes that talking will distract David from the pain he’s in, if only a little.

“I may have been recreating a look my mother wore to the 1991 Daytime Emmy Awards, including a floor-length beaded gown and six inch heals.”

Patrick smiles into David’s hair. “I love you,” he murmurs and hears David hum in response. “The perils of high fashion.”

“You have no idea,” David replies, and Patrick can hear the smile in his voice. “The heel caught on the train of the dress and I fell. There were beads all over the floor. I don’t think my mom ever got over it.”

“Well, it’s not everyday your son dons a couture gown and puts on a fashion show,” Patrick teases. “Wait, she didn’t get over you getting hurt or…” Patrick pulls back and looks at David, whose eyes dart away.

“She was mad about the dress. Adelina took me to the hospital.”

Every time Patrick thinks he’s heard the worst of David’s childhood stories, there’s always another that just makes his heart hurt for the little boy who had to turn to his nanny for the love and affection that should have come from his parents. He takes David’s face carefully in his hands and kisses him again. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” 

“Me too,” David replies, an impish glint in his eyes. “After that, Mom locked me out of her couture closet.” He purses his lips, asking for another kiss, which Patrick happily bestows. “It was very traumatic. I was going through a bit of a dress-up phase.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow at that, and David scowls at him. “This is not a _phase,_ Patrick,” he says, gesturing at himself with his good arm. “This is fashion.”

Now both Patrick’s eyebrows are raised and David looks down at what he’s wearing and sighs. “Well, obviously _this_ isn’t fashion,” he says, plucking discontentedly at the front of the zip-up Maples Leaf’s hoodie he’s wearing. “This is an abomination.”

Patrick snorts and rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t about to try and wrestle you into one of your sweaters, David,” he says evenly. “And I definitely didn’t want to hear you whining about stretching out one of your sleeves if you needed a cast. So maybe try to be a little grateful.”

David gapes at him. “I never said I wasn’t grateful!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

David looks contrite. “Well, I am. Grateful. Thank you, and...oh my God! Patrick! Am I—” David pauses, wiggling his butt around on the bed. “—am I going _commando_ in these brandless sweatpants?!”

Patrick tries to hide his grin behind his hand, but it’s no use. He is equal parts charmed and exasperated by David Rose. “It was either these or your pyjama pants,” he says, the fondness evident in his voice. “And I figured pyjamas in public are incorrect. Was I wrong?”

David glowers at him, but it’s half-hearted. He sniffs imperiously and tugs playfully on the sleeve of Patrick’s sweatshirt. “You weren’t wrong. But for future reference, no underwear in public is _more_ incorrect.”

“Mmm,” Patrick hums, leaning in to kiss the frown off David’s face. “I’ll remember for next time.”

“See that you do.”

* * *

It’s another half hour before a doctor comes to see David. And Patrick can’t help but sigh with relief, because by now, no amount of teasing or cuddling can distract David from the pain.

“David Rose?” A thirty-something woman with her dark hair pulled into a messy bun and a stethoscope hanging around her neck pokes her head around the curtain.

“That’d be him,” Patrick says, nodding down at his husband who has scrunched himself into a ball on the bed, trying to curl protectively around his arm. 

“Hi David. I’m Dr. O’Brien,” she says. David grunts in response.

“I’m Patrick. The husband,” Patrick says, shaking her hand. “I’m the only one of us still capable of using his words, so.”

She grins at him, then flips open the file in her hands, extracting a set of black and white X-Ray images. She grabs a portable light table from the far wall and wheels it over, tucking the images under the lip running along the top of the box before flicking on the light. She hums thoughtfully. “It looks like we have an oblique fracture in both the ulna and the radius of the right arm,” she says, looking over at David. “That’s probably pretty painful.”

“You think?” David mutters under his breath, but it’s loud enough for the doctor to hear. Patrick grimaces in apology. She waves him off with a knowing smile and a shake of her head.

“So. Here’s what we’re going to do,” she says, turning off the light table and returning the images to her folder. “We’re going to give you some of the good stuff, get you feeling a little more comfortable.” David perks up at that, his head popping up to look hopefully over his shoulder at Dr. O’Brien. “And then I’m afraid I’m going to have to set those bones.” David lets out a distressed little whimper and Patrick gently scratches his fingers through his hair. “And you’ll be in a cast for four to six weeks, give or take.”

“Give or take?” David echoes quietly.

“How long you take to heal depends on your age, lifestyle, and whether you listen to your doctor’s orders,” she says with a smile.

“I’ll be making sure he follows any and all of his doctor’s orders,” Patrick supplies and David lowers his head back down onto his pillow and sighs forlornly.

“Good.” Dr. O’Brien taps the folder against her palm and nods. “Well, I’ll be back in a few minutes with some painkillers. And once those kick in, we’ll set that bone and get you in a cast, okay David?”

“Mmmph.”

The doctor rolls her eyes good naturedly and strides off. Patrick continues to run his fingers through David’s hair. “You gonna let me sign your cast?” he asks.

“No. No one can sign my cast,” David grumbles into his pillow. “When I broke my leg, all the kids in my class wrote mean things.”

“What if I promise to only write nice things?”

“Like what?”

“Hmm. Like, _I love you._ Or maybe _You’re the best._ ”

David doesn’t respond, but he does lean in to Patrick’s touch, which he takes as a good sign. 

“Or maybe I’ll just write _PB + DR_ and put a big heart around it.”

David’s good hand emerges from his cocoon and curls around Patrick’s knee, squeezing gently.

“Is that a yes?”

“I like that one.”

Patrick smiles. He likes that one too.

* * *

So the drugs have kicked in.

David is being _very_ affectionate. Far more affectionate than he usually is in public. And sillier too, which Patrick finds absolutely adorable. Beaming up at him from his bed, David reaches out with his good hand and touches a finger to the tip of Patrick’s nose.

“Boop.” He giggles and does it again. “Boop. Boop, boop, boop.”

Patrick bats his hand away with a slightly exasperated huff. Sure it’s cute, but Patrick has limits. He’s finally starting to understand why David gets irritated with Alexis when she does it to him.

“I can see why Alexis does this all the time,” David says, coming in for another boop. “This is fun.”

“Mhmm. Sure it is,” Patrick says, trying to get hold of David’s hand and redirect it to somewhere that isn’t his nose. David gets a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Oooh. Want me to boop something else?” he purrs, shimmying his shoulders in a way that would have had him howling in pain only a few minutes ago. Instead, he looks down at the arm lying in a sling and frowns. “That didn’t feel nice.”

“Okay. Let’s keep our hands to ourselves,” he says. “How about we just close our eyes and wait for the doctor to come back, okay?”

“Mmm, yeah. Let’s play _doctor,”_ David hums, freeing his hand from Patrick’s grip and walking his fingers playfully up his thigh. “I’ll be the doctor. Say _‘ahhh’.”_

“David!” Patrick can’t help but laugh. David grins at him. 

“You wanna be the doctor?”

“How about _I_ be the doctor?” Dr. O’Brien appears from around the curtain, her eyes dancing with amusement. “I see the meds have kicked in. That’s good.”

“Mhmm. It’s very good,” David agrees.

“I need you gentlemen to come with me,” she says standing back and extending her arm down the line of beds toward the entrance to the Observation Room. “Let’s get those bones set.”

“Yeah, Patrick. We’re gonna set my bone,” David says with a lascivious wink in Patrick’s direction. Patrick snorts and gets up, extending his hand to help David stand. He carefully wraps an arm around his waist and together they follow the doctor out into the hallway and into a small room with yet another long, narrow bed. There’s a chair beside the bed and a long table with drawers filled with plasters, splints, and other supplies.

Dr. O’Brien gestures to the bed and Patrick sits David down and keeps a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. David hums happily and puts his head on Patrick’s shoulder. The doctor sits in a chair with wheels on it’s base and rolls over to the bed, carefully extracting David’s arm from it’s sling.

“Okay David,” she says, slowly extending his arm, “I’m going to need you to take off your sweater. Can you do that for me?”

“It’s a sweatshirt,” David informs her drowsily.

“I beg your pardon?”

“S’not a sweater. It’s a sweatshirt.”

She raises an eyebrow at Patrick.

“Oh this is nothing,” he says, pressing a kiss to David’s temple and reaching for the zipper tab on David’s hoodie. “Just wait until you have to sit through an hour long lecture on how to properly care for knitwear.” He starts to pull the zipper down and David smiles trustingly up at him. “As he’ll be one-handed for a while, I’ll probably have to retake the course when we get home, seeing as I’ll be in charge of the laundry.”

Dr. O’Brien laughs and shakes her head, waiting patiently as Patrick unzips the hoodie. “Let’s try and get your good arm out first, okay?” Patrick says as he carefully maneuvers David’s arm out of the sleeve, then moves on to the other arm, taking infinite care to keep the jostling to a minimum. “There. Good job, baby,” he says, wrapping a protective arm around David’s bare shoulders. “You okay?”

“M’good,” David replies. “Wanna take your shirt off too.”

Patrick guides David’s roaming hand away from tugging at the hem of his own sweatshirt and smiles helplessly at the doctor.

“So David,” the doctor says, taking hold of David’s arm and gently palpating his forearm. It’s so pale and swollen, and Patrick feels a little sick watching her feel around for the break in David’s bones, “Can you tell me how this happened?”

“Sex,” David replies with a bright smile. 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he nods his head. “So good. But Patrick broke the bed.”

“Oh, Patrick did, did he?” she smiles as she grips his arm tightly in her hands and gives a gentle tug. Patrick’s stomach turns unpleasantly.

“He did,” David says seriously. “But it’s okay. I’m gonna get a cast, and he’s gonna write on it that he loves me.”

She smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“He’s very nice.”

She gives David’s arm another tug and a twist and Patrick is definitely going to be sick. He puts a hand over his mouth and tries to swallow back the nausea. 

“You okay Patrick?” she asks. He shakes his head. “I can’t really let go of David’s arm just this second, but there’s a bedpan on the counter you can be sick into if you need to.”

Patrick dashes over to the counter and grabs the stainless steel, kidney-shaped container just in time. 

“Have a seat, Patrick. Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths,” the doctor instructs him while she continues to manipulate David’s arm. David is watching her with fascination. “There we go. All done!” She smiles and bends David’s arm, looping the sling back over his neck and nestling his arm carefully inside. “I’m just going to mix up some plaster so we can start working on that cast. Patrick, I’m going to grab you some water. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Patrick feels a little better after splashing some cool water on his face and on the back of his neck in the adjoining bathroom. He sits in the chair beside David’s bed and sips the glass of water Dr. O’Brien brought for him, watching as she carefully wraps David’s arm in sheets of wet plaster. David smiles at him, then back at the doctor. 

“You’re very nice,” he says to her. Then he looks over at Patrick again. “Isn’t she very nice?”

“Mhmm. Yes. Very nice,” Patrick agrees. 

Dr. O’Brien smiles to herself as she wraps another layer around David’s arm.

“I like your hair. What do you use?”

The doctor smooths her hand over the cast and hums thoughtfully. “I just buy whatever’s on sale at the drugstore.”

David lets out a gasp of horror and shakes his head emphatically. “No. No, no, no. Incorrect!” he declares. “No, with hair like yours, you need something with coconut in it. Maybe some honey for shine. Give me your card when we leave and we’ll send you something from our store.”

 _Unbelievable,_ Patrick thinks to himself with a small smile creeping across his face. David is always the salesman, even under these trying circumstances. 

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” she demurs softly. 

“Please? Your hair is so pretty! But the parabens and sulfates in drug store shampoos will dry it out,” David insists. “Just a small bottle? A sample, really.”

“Well…”

“He’s not going to take no for an answer,” Patrick says with an apologetic shrug.

“Okay,” she finally capitulates. “But only a sample.”

Once the first layer is applied, the doctor has to mold the cast to David’s arm, which sets Patrick’s stomach to churning again. But it’s over quickly and then they have to wait for the first layer to dry before applying the outer, fibreglass coating.

Patrick takes a moment to duck out into the hall and check in with his parents. He finds them slumped in their chairs in the waiting room, sound asleep. He gives his mom’s knee a gentle shake.

“Oh!” she exclaims, bolting upright in her seat. “Are you done?” 

“Not quite. David’s just getting his cast put on.”

She rubs tiredly at her eyes and blinks up at him. “You look terrible,” she says bluntly before yawning widely and giving his dad a poke with her elbow to stop his snoring. “You’re all green around the gills.”

Patrick scrunches up his nose. “Yeah. Kind of lost my lunch when the doctor was rearranging David’s bones.”

His mom’s face slips into an expression of deepest sympathy. “Oh no! You poor thing.” She gives his cheek a comforting little pat. “And David? How’s he?”

“Oh he’s fine. High as a fucking kite and having the time of his life.”

His mom scowls. “Language.”

“Sorry.” Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’ll probably be another half an hour?”

“Okay,” his mom yawns, stretching her arms over her head before nestling in beside his dad again. “We’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Patrick says softly, but she’s already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for taking so long to update this story. I've had it in the works for ages, but had to put it aside to work on other projects with deadlines (ew). 
> 
> I was so stuck on this chapter, and one conversation with blackandwhiteandrose and suddenly, it all clicked into place. Thanks, my shiny new friend! This one’s for you!
> 
> I'm not even sure if there are many folks out there still interested in this story, but if you are please raise your hand LOL!

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, more to come. But in the mean time, please leave a comment or tickle that kudos button! I love to hear from you!
> 
> I’m on Tumblr @delilah-mcmuffin
> 
> Until next time, D McM


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